Rendez Vous
by Spider Baby-Firefly
Summary: Modern AU. Ciel and Alois rendez-vous at a cafe. Ciel/Alois, figurative fluff and literal whipped cream.


**Bah, so, explanation time: I've been trying to write a few lemons for another Kuroshitsuji fanfiction (that I'm planning to post this year,) but my brain CANNOT seem to handle writing smut. So what do I do? I write the fluffiest fluff in Fluffville.**

**I'm aware that Ciel and Alois may seem a touch OOC, but this is supposed to be a sort of modern-day, alternate universe possibility for them; I like to think of it as "Present-Perfect" :) **

**Anyway, please read and enjoy, and feel free to check out my other Kuroshitsuji fics and oneshots. Don't forget to review!**

**OoO**

Cafes are the quintessential watering holes for all manner of people in Southern California. One unremarkable August day, two boys walk into one of these generic coffee houses, arousing the attention of the minority of patrons that are not engaged with their blackberries or laptops. The boys arrive like all other customers, blinking rapidly as they transition from bright summer sun outside to dim cafe lighting. These boys, however, are not quite ordinary.

They are, in plain words, lovely. They appear to be about thirteen and are bursting with the freshness of ripening youth, all the while maintaining the androgynous, fine-featured beauty of childhood. Moreover, they possess that odd blend of bold confidence and undefinable self-consciousness typical to famous people. One of them—a blond with playful, sky-blue eyes—is chattering animatedly about something, while the other—a petite boy wearing black skinny jeans, suspenders, and a fedora—half-listens, looking around with one alert blue eye (that just happens to be the exact color of his cobalt tee-shirt.) Occasionally, he pushes at the strands blue-black hair that obscure the left side of his face, teasing onlookers with brief flashes of its twin.

When they reach the counter, Fedora gives his order in calm, precised tones, while his companion dances from foot to foot, twice tugging at the hem of his gray, one-size-too-big argyle vest. Then, as though remembering where he is, Argyle turns to look at the menu overhead, providing anybody still watching with a perfect view of his tailored plum shorts and black above-the-knee socks. It is obvious from the pristine condition of his beige, ankle-high hiking boots that he's never used them for their ascribed purpose. Argyle taps his lips in thought, cat-tilted blue eyes narrowed at the special board. When it's his turn to order, the blond taps his foot in a quick rhythm against the hard floor, gesticulating frequently as he makes his request. Fedora rolls his eye heavenward.

After choosing their table, Argyle scoots into the booth, shouting "Dibs!" as he does so. Fedora does not seem particularly distressed by this as he settles into his chair. Argyle dangles his legs and Fedora crosses his. There is a temporary lull in their one-sided conversation as Argyle leans over his plain coffee ("With soy milk! Only soy milk!") and laps up the generous coating of whipped cream he'd demanded on top of it with quick swipes of his pierced tongue. Fedora sips his caramel macchiato and examines the chessboard on the table, which had been abandoned mid-game by the previous players. He is also, however, stealing glances at his companion, who is gleefully aware of this fact.

Soon, all that the remains of the whipped cream is a little glob on Argyle's nose. Feigning unaware, Argyle recommences with his babble until Fedora just can't take it anymore. When the dark-haired boy just wipes the spot off with a napkin, though, Argyle appears disappointed. Fedora just gives him a look that says "well what did you expect?" Argyle sticks his tongue out in response, once again giving his companion a glance of his silver lip ring. He then proceeds to make a complete mess of their table by ripping open table-provided packs of honey, sugar, cinnamon, cocoa, and creamer into his coffee. Fedora attempts to look disinterested, but he is clearly amused.

When he's happy with his concoction, Argyle passes a sly glance around the room and says something indistinguishable to his table-mate. His lips are curled up in a playful grin. "Ha!" Fedora laughs, a quick, staccato burst before he remembers himself and goes back to his accustomed expression of cool indifference. Argyle seems satisfied with the reaction as he slurps his drink. Fedora slouches in his chair and rests his chin on steepled hands. He levels Fedora with a steady sapphire gaze and mutters in low tones.

Whatever the dark-haired boy said sets Argyle giggling like a loon. An instant passes in which Argyle glances almost shyly down at his fingers, which have started tearing up a napkin into pieces, before leaning over and whisper something long and smirk-heavy into Fedora's double-pierced ear. Fedora ducks his head to hide the pale pink flush that steals over his face. He smacks Argyle's bare thigh under the table, and the blond slumps, sulking, in his booth. After a bit of pouting, he looks up at Fedora with heavily lashed eyes that are much more puppy-like than feline at this point and murmurs a single phrase. Suddenly, Fedora's face is transformed by a rare, shy smile of surprising sweetness.

The dark-haired boy leans in then, and Argyle is pulled toward him like the opposite end of a magnet. A brief hiatus in cafe chatter allows Fedora's statement, "don't pout, Alois," to be audible to anybody listening. Fedora tucks a lock of golden hair behind the other boy's ear and kisses him. Their lips mingle together in a chaste but tender meeting. Their essences seem to blend together like midnight moon and afternoon sun; opposite sides of a coin that would rather be together. It's a brief kiss, and as they pull apart the boys seem to glow. Two sets of blue eyes sparkle in the dim cafe.

"Shit!" The blond shouts loudly for the whole establishment to hear, "Ciel Phantomhive, I didn't think you had the balls!"

Fedora—that is, Ciel—mutters a gruff rebuke, but he is clearly quite a ways from angry. Alois just beams.

It's not long before the boys finish their drinks and make to leave. Ciel straightens his black skinny tie, and Alois does a little pirouette around the table, just for the joy of it. They share a laugh because they're young and beautiful and in love. On the way out of the cafe, the boys' hands find each other, and their fingers lace, as natural as night following day and vice versa.

Some time after the pair has left, another patron heads for the exit, leaving a hastily-scribbled upon napkin on the table. This particular customer had noticed the boys on their arrival, and hadn't been able to keep from observing the peculiar but fascinating couple. The next people to park their bags at the table will see the napkin and read the brief, impulsively written poem:

_Two cherub-faced babes_

_at a cafe. Showing us,_

_What love really is._


End file.
